


Maker's Mark

by perletwo



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, avengers_tables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:59:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perletwo/pseuds/perletwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Coulson goes for the nuclear option. Done for the "secret skills" Coulson prompt at avengers_tables on LJ.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Maker's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Coulson goes for the nuclear option. Done for the "secret skills" Coulson prompt at avengers_tables on LJ.

Coulson could practically _hear_ enamel wearing away from the surface of his teeth as he ground them together, biting off the stinging volley of insults he’d _really_ like to loose on this tight-assed bureaucrat on the other end of the triple-secure phone line.

The one who, unfortunately, held Director Fury’s life in his hands at the moment.

“I’m sorry, Agent Coulson, I really am,” the dweeb insisted. Coulson’s hands fisted at the edge of glee not quite concealed in the man’s voice. “But without that authorization, signed by the Director and affixed with the official seal by me, there’s nothing we can do.”

Behind him, Coulson heard an angry hum rise in Agent Barton’s throat, and he spared a glance back to warn the sniper down.

“Sir.” Coulson was careful to keep his tone respectfully level. “The Director has been kidnapped by operatives of HYDRA. To coin a phrase, they have ways of making him talk, and whatever you’re imagining, multiply it by a factor of awful times about a thousand -”

“- And he’s being held in an _embassy,_ Agent. Foreign soil, a sovereign part of HYDRA’s little designer banana republic. Unless you’ve got that official request for dispensation, signed by the Director and approved by me with an official seal, you’d be committing this country to a goddamn _war_ if you so much as set foot uninvited on that property. They’re just waiting for someone to give them an excuse to pull the trigger, you know that. It’s what the whole gambit of abducting Col. Fury is about in the first place!”

“I understand that, sir, but the Director is one of those rare cases where the man is more important than the office he holds – Nick Fury is literally irreplaceable,” Coulson insisted.

“I repeat – step on embassy soil, _start a war._ Are you prepared to be responsible for starting a war, Agent? Because I know I’m not.”

“We do not just leave Fury in HYDRA’s hands,” Clint burst out, unable to keep silent any longer. He took a step forward, and Coulson put a hand out to stop him.

“Barton,” he said in an undertone, the one that always said to Clint _I have a plan._ “Look. Mister Undersecretary. Give me an hour, please – if I can get a hold of Col. Fury’s admin – there’s a chance he may have signed the request forms and been taken before he had a chance to submit them to you, Hill will know if he did and where we can find them if they exist. If we get signed forms to you within an hour, can I have your word you’ll put that seal on them then and there and give us the go, sir?”

There was an audible exhalation on the other end of the line. “You have my word. One hour, Coulson, and then you and your people _stand down,_ or face prosecution, you hear me?”

“Yes sir! Thank you sir.” Coulson clicked off, squared his shoulders. “Barton. With me.”

The two men hastened down the hall to an elevator, which Coulson activated with his swipe card. The elevator took them directly to the floor which held Fury’s office and private quarters.

Once in, Barton began rifling stacks of paper on the desk, focusing particularly on the outbox. Coulson, meanwhile, went directly to a rack of blank forms.

“If we’re lucky, what we’re looking for should be at or near the top of one of these piles -” Clint began, but Coulson waved him off.

“You never saw this,” Coulson said, and Clint looked up.

Coulson took a deep breath and held it, turned his head on his neck, rolled his shoulders. Then he took up Fury’s favorite pen in his non-dominant hand, held it up, and scribbled quickly on the line marked X at the bottom of the form: _Nicholas J. Fury._

Clint peered carefully at the results, and his mouth fell open. Coulson had produced an exact replica of Fury’s signature, with a dashed-off ease and light pen pressure that kept it from looking too studied.

“You – you just -” Barton began when he found his voice, with a note of giddy pleasure in the words. His head swam with the possibilities a power like this opened up – Fury-mandated caramel macchiatos in every breakroom! 1920s Fashion Fridays! The potential for mischief was endless!

Coulson looked up from the blanks of the form he was quickly filling out.

“If. You tell _anyone._ I know how to do that,” he said quietly, “I _will_ kill you.”

Clint’s face fell, but his sharpshooter’s eyesight locked in on Coulson’s and scrutinized its expression, and he felt understanding click into place. Coulson regarded forging Fury’s signature as the nuclear option, the WMD of his paperwork arsenal, and he took the responsibility the skill gave him very seriously.

That was why he kept it a secret – only now, he’d shared it with Clint. Which left him awed and honored, and honestly a little taken aback, as he couldn’t imagine why. Lord knows Clint was the last person _Clint_ would trust with a secret like that.

Coulson finished up the forms and examined them. After a moment’s thought he wrinkled the paper slightly, added the ring impression from Fury’s coffee cup in a corner and wiped it away, leaving only a faint residue. He nodded and tapped the papers’ edges on the desk.

“Let’s go,” he said, and Barton followed him down the hall at a brisk pace.

They had a Director to rescue, after all.


End file.
